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One week later…

I have three rules when it comes to dating:

Never waste time with a man if you know it’s not going to work. Cut them off before date 3.

Never date Gio’s teammates.

Never break the first two rules.

But …

It’s not dating if I never actually meet up with Luca, right?

What we’re doing is a fun, low-stakes ego boost, wrapped in late-night banter and lighthearted sass.

This flirtation is harmless flirting and nothing more.

At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

Keep Luca on the app, don’t agree to see him in person—no harm, no foul.

Luca only knows me as Gio’s twin sister; cocky, cool, distant. Aloof, at times, because the last thing I want is to be hurt by a man, especially one close to my brother.

I’ve got this under control .

Seriously though… Would my brother notice if I went out with him once or twice ? Probably not. He is so far up his own ass right now he hasn’t checked in on me at all this week.

Gio and Austin have a newborn baby girl, Vivi, named after our mother—who passed away when we were teenagers—along with our dad.

The thought sobers me several seconds.

I want to be happy. That’s the only thing Gio wants for me, right?

You’re not serious about Luca Babineaux , the little voice in my head reminds me. You’re bored.

“Oh shut up,” I mutter to myself. “You’re not bored, you’re…selective.”

My last date—which lasted all of ten minutes—does not help tip the scales toward a date with Luca. The guy—Cam? Clark? No, Calvin —seemed normal enough over text, but the second I walked into the bar, I discovered he was four shots deep before I’d arrived.

He spent a solid five minutes rambling about his ex’s “psycho tendencies”, the government’s secret mind control experiments, and my personal favorite—how he thought he could fight a bear and win if he was “properly warmed up.”

Which, apparently, required another shot.

Bye, Calvin.

I stare at Luca’s message, my finger hovering over the keyboard.

Luca: One drink. One hour .

What would be the harm? “Because bad decisions start with good intentions.”

And let’s be honest—this would be a disaster waiting to happen because:

Uh, for starters, Gio would kill me. Full-on, big brother meltdown . And if he somehow managed to get over it? The team wouldn’t. Locker room gossip spreads fast, and I have no desire to become anyone’s pregame joke .

Worse? Luca is exactly my type.

Why is that problematic? Because my type never works out! I fall for the good-looking, cocky ones. They make me feel special right up until they dump me and move on to their next conquest.

Besides his position on the Houston Baddies (and what he’s presenting on the dating app) I know virtually nothing about him.

I don’t know if he leaves his dishes in the sink—or if he’s the type to use “your” instead of “you’re.” I don’t know if he listens when women talk or if he’s secretly the kind of guy who thinks therapy is for people who “need to toughen up.”

I also don’t know if he’s emotionally available or if he’s saying the right things in his dating bio because he knows exactly what women want to hear.

I refuse to be a cliché.

I will not be that girl: the one who gets tangled up with her brother’s hot, charming teammate, ignores every single red flag, and then has to deal with the slow-motion train wreck when it inevitably crashes and burns.

That won’t be me.

Nope. Absolutely not .

If Luca and I were ever to become a thing… it would ruin everything.

Not just for me.

It would be awkward for Gio— painfully, irreparably awkward.

He’s not just my brother, he’s also Luca’s captain. The locker room is practically Gio’s second home, and dating me would make Luca a walking conflict of interest. Right?

Wouldn’t it?

I bite down on my lip as I pull my hair into a ponytail, wrapping the band around it three times and letting it bounce.

Can you imagine the tension in the locker room if this date goes bad? What if we’re dating and have a fight? What if we break up? What if I’m crying and Gio wants to defend my honor? What if Luca gets benched and people whisper that it’s because of me ?

Like I’ve cursed him.

That shit happens, you know.

I’ve seen it a million times.

It wouldn’t just be uncomfortable. It would be humiliating.

All the more reason why I should ignore Luca Babineaux. But instead because your girl here clearly enjoys self-sabotage, I type back.

Me: Fine. One drink. But just so we’re clear—this is not a date.

His response is instant.

Luca: Never said it was.

“Oh he’s smooth. Real smooth…” Look at him trying to reverse psychology me into thinking he doesn’t think this is a date! Ha! “ Nice try, Luca Babineaux. But I see what you’re doing.”

Or.

Maybe he doesn’t actually see me that way? Maybe I’m the one reading into this. Maybe I should try harder to impress him—that would serve him right.

I refuse to be mind-fucked into caring about this.

To prove just how unfuckable I am, I refuse to put in any effort beyond what is absolutely necessary to show up, drink my one drink, and leave with my sanity intact.

I will wear the dullest, least date-like outfit I can think of, because if this isn’t a date, I need to look like it’s not a date.

No makeup.

No cute top that shows off my amazing boobs.

And definitely no heels.

And. I’ll choose the least date-like bar to meet him at.

Me: Meet me at the bar—Rainforest Café, downtown. 8:00.

I smirk to myself. Nothing is less sexy than screaming children at the mall, fake thunder, fake lightning, and loud music.

Luca: OMFG I LOVE THAT PLACE.

The smile is instantly wiped off my face as I glare at his reply; he’s screwing with me.

He must be!

No self-respecting man should love the Rainforest Café. It’s messy, chaotic, and comes with a side of screaming toddlers and overpriced mozzarella sticks. The animatronic gorillas alone should be enough to scare him off.

At seven thirty, I throw on my least flattering hoodie, leggings that have definitely seen better days, and my oldest sneakers. And if my hair in a messy bun at the top of my head doesn’t scream friend-zone, I don’t know what does.

He loves the Rainforest Café?

Fine.

Let’s see how much he really loves it when we’re stuck in a booth next to a malfunctioning elephant and a three-year-old named Brayden throwing fries.

I text back.

Me: Hope you like jungle sounds and overpriced chicken tenders

Luca: I always order the ones shaped like dinosaurs.

Oh my God. Why is he so…chipper? And agreeable? And adorable?

I wonder if he’s always so amendable as I give myself a once- over in the full-length mirror in the hallway, nodding in approval.

Perfect.

I look like shit—and I mean that in the most intentional way possible…

Now, all I have to do is keep reminding myself why dating my brother’s teammate is a terrible, terrible idea.

So no. I will not be getting attached.

This will not be classified as a date.

This is not the beginning of something special.

This is a one-drink experiment. A flirtation detox. A very public, very casual situation that will burn out as quickly as it started.

I’ll have one drink. Maybe two . I’ll laugh at a few of his dumb jokes, keep my hoodie on, and go home.

And then I’ll delete him from the app.